


Fairy

by vermontghost



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gabriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Jazz Age, M/M, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21973075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vermontghost/pseuds/vermontghost
Summary: In the roaring twenties, a writer with a crippling anxiety disorder meets his neighbor, the crimson-haired Anthony Crowley, and he falls in love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	1. One

It came in waves.

they hit and rippled, crashing through my trembling hands like water from a mountain stream, the anxiety a thousand sharpened knives stabbing at the fractures of my bones. Its ghostly hands grasped my lungs, emptying them of air.  
and just like waves, it ended as soon at it had begun.

"Are you alright, Mr. Fell?" The speakeasy came to around me as I opened his eyes - the leather of my seat, the pipe next to me, the dim lights and the waiter who waited for a response.

"Quite, thank you."  
"A glass of whiskey, on the house. You look like you need it."

He walked back towards the bar, and poured a glass, bringing it back to my table. I raised it to my lips and it burned down my throat, smooth and strong. The bartender walked away, and I brought out my fountain pen - black ink flew across the page as I began to write.

you were the waves/ i was a lonely soul/ who made you up in my head/ or maybe i just wanted to love something/ other than the ocean/ 

...

"This is terrible, Az. This makes no sense. Definitely never going to get published this way. Also, you need to lose weight. Immediately. Nobody wants an overweight writer." Gabriel threw the poem in the wastebasket, swiping his hands together.

"You're a shit writer, but with editing, we can make you a better one." I nodded, my head down. Of course.

"I'll bring you better ones next week, and I'll work on the weight."

He waved me out, and I put on my coat, hands twisting open the doorknob into the snow. All I wanted was a classic, perhaps a Jane Austen, chamomile tea, and a couch.

As I walked, my scarf flung around my neck, I saw a glimpse of red hair, fluttering in the breeze. Maybe he was a good writer. Maybe he wasn't useless like I was.

I reached West Egg, and swung open the door, hanging up my coat and hat, settling down to read. A knock sounded suddenly, and I sat up, pushing my glasses to the roof of my nose, and walked over to open the door. 

"Who is it?"

The man with crimson hair stood outside my doorway, sunglasses poised on his face, shrouded in a black suit. 

"Crowley. Anthony Crowley. I'm your neighbor."

__

"Az. Az Fell. Come in." He walked in, and his walk was stranger than strange - his limbs sauntered across the carpet, almost dancing as he strode through ribbons of air. I closed the door behind him.

"It's quite a beautiful collection of books. Where did you find them?"  
"From the houses of people who neglected them."

He stared at me as he spoke - there was something about the way his words flowed to the next, that suggested he wasn't like the rest of the people I've met. His words were blunt, but kind.

"I've been looking for a novel on the assortment of flora and fauna - can i see your collection?" I led him to the corner of the bookstore, to the stacks of books with leather covers and grabbed one from the third shelf. It was a first edition of Gray's 1908 manual of botany, packed with illustrations, a hardcover encased in green fabric. I handed it to him, and he flipped through the pages, a smile etching across his face like wildflowers blooming from grass.  
"I'll take it. How much?"  
"Ten."

We sat in silence for a moment, gazing out the window.

He pulled a ten-dollar note from his pocket, handing it to me.

"Say - I'll be in my hydroplane in the morning. Would you like to come?"

I could imagine the shudder of my shoulders, the panic encasing me like a shadow at any random moment, I could imagine it happening in front of him, his face repulsed in disgust - "I'm afraid I cannot, but good day. I'll see you around."

"Good day, Mr. Fell."

I nodded, but he was already gone, the door swinging gently shut along its hinges. I collapsed on the tartan couch, sinking into the pillows, staring at the ceiling, before I stood up and boiled a pot of tea.

As it began to boil, I steeped it with chamomile flowers, and they swarmed around the water before slipping into the ceramic mug. I inhaled the scent of flowers, and my hands stopped trembling.

The day crumbled into night, teacups filling and emptying, pages of old, beatiful books turning to the tune of the crackling of the fireplace. I don't sleep often. Occasionally, I'll drift off in the early hours of the morning, but I can't remember a time where I've slept more than five hours.

I took my notebook from my pocket, the ink-filled pages spilling out of the soft leather cover. I brought it to my chest, soft against the beat of my heart.


	2. Chapter 2

A knock on the door sounded through the bookshop as I rushed to answer it.

It was two in the afternoon, and sunlight streamed through gaps in the closed curtains.

Anthony stood on the doorstep, covered in an onyx-black velvet suit, his hand still resting in the air from knocking. His lips - don't look at his lips - were slightly open, as if he was going to say something, but hesitated. His short, crimson hair fluttered in the wind.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Fell."

"Good afternoon," I said. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

He would say no. Of course he would, and that was for the best, what if the anxiety came in waves, what if -

"Of course, thanks."

_What?_

"Come in."

I boiled a teakettle full of water, pouring the water into two mugs - I dropped an infuser full of chamomile flowers into my own. Into his, rooibos. red and calming, soft flowers from a spiked bush. "Here you go."

We sat across from each other, him in the blue velvet armchair. I brought the water to my lips, the steam slowly drifting away as the chamomile sunk in. The calm sunk over me like a drug.

All of a sudden, it began to rain. They started as drops, but then began to pour - the rumbling of thunder in the distance. I could see lightning from the windows, umbrellas decked upon shoulders, passerby hurrying and yelling, dogs whimpering and tires squealing, the weight of the world crashing down as the rain spilled like tears.

I didn't notice the shaking in my hands before it was too late.

"Az? What's happening?"

My voice was trapped in my lungs with my air, and shadows grasped my lungs, hands holding them tight until my heartbeat rocketed, pounding in my ears - This was it. He'd call someone to place me in an asylum.

I'd live the rest of my days waiting for shock treatment, my mind stitched together by electricity - I'd live in the shadows.

Instead, arms wrapped around me, the couch caving under the weight of someone else. Maybe he would forget if I reassurred him enough - maybe I wouldn't be locked up -

The shadows clenched on, their fingers tightening, and if i could see into the future, I knew my breath would evaporate until then I was nothing but a body in the arms of someone who should never have known.

but, as always, my breathing slowed, and the shadows flew away. therewas nothing left but the pounding of my heartbeat.

_don't let him know you're a fairy. don't let him know you._

I stood up from his embrace, and headed for the door. "That- Forget that ever happened, and for the love of God, don't hate me. Leave. I know you want to."

He stood up from the couch, and drew his sunglasses away from his face.it was the first time I saw his eyes.they were golden eyes, glistening in the dimly lit room - and in the center, silver-black slits.

They were beautiful.

"It's called cat's eye syndrome. It's a part of me, but it doesn't define me. You have - whatever these are. They're a part of you, but they don't define you. It doesn't matter whether you have these things, because I'd like to know you all the same."

My hand drifted away from the doorknob, my gaze finding his. "Thank - Thank you."He smiled one of those rare, understanding smiles, and nodded.

I could feel the blush creeping up my face, but thankfully, he was looking towards the bookshelves.

"Do you have a favorite book, Az?"

"A collection of poems by Robert Frost. A first edition with a leather cover."

"I've heard of his works, but never read one."

"You should."

We talked for what seemed like hours, until the rain began to stop, and the clouds drifted away, leaving the evening air.

"I'd best be off, but thank you for your kindness."

I nodded, and he smiled for one last time before closing the door and walking away.

"Thank you," I whispered under my breath.


	3. Chapter 3

**one year later**

The pipe rested in my hand, long threads of smoke intertwining and floating across the air. "Whisky on the rocks," the server said before he walked away, carrying drinks to people in black-velvet suits, people with gold rings and lives they lived, lives spent in underground speakeasies, lives filled with glamour and alcohol and amusement.

Anthony Crowley. His smile dazzled like the moonlight, and his beautiful eyes. My eyelids fluttered closed, and for a moment, I could imagine his hand in mine -

 _Don't. Stop. He's not a fairy._  
 _He can't know you're a fairy, or you'll lose him for the rest of your life. You've known him for a year now. Don't lose him_.  
 _It's too late to run - drift away from him. drift away from him and never imagine the feeling of his lips against yours_.

I could feel the panic rising in my bones, and I walked to the bathroom, away from the table and the still-smoking pipe, opening the door and shutting it closed, falling back onto the familiar wall before the shaking began.

My eyes crunched closed, and my hands began to shake, arms wrapping at my throat until I couldn't breathe anymore, knocking the breath out of me like a hatchet, ripping through the darkness. As soon as it had begun, it was over.

I walked back outside, straightening my tartan collar and adjusting my bowtie, and placing a smile on my face. I drank some of the whisky, burning down my throat.  
I turned the page of my notebook and uncapped my fountain pen, and ink began to spiral across paper when a whisper echoed through the now-silent room.

"Password please."  
"Mulberry," laughed a drunken, almost unintelligible cry.  
A man with crimson hair entered the room, and staggered with a gait that was all too familiar -

"Anthony?"  
 _Not hopeful, don't sound hopeful. He's said you're his best friend, but he probably doesn't mean it._ _don't ever let him see the way you look at him._

He laughed again, and the word "angel!" slipped from his mouth before he tumbled down the stairs.

 _angel_?

I ran like wildfire, almost tripping over my trench coat. He lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, a scratch on his forehead, laughing.

"Are you responsible for him?"

The server walked up to me, concern written across his expression.  
"I... assume so, he's -"

"Take him home and get some rest, Mr. Fell. You look like you need it."

I nodded as he walked away, staring at the laughing Anthony on the ground, sunglasses crooked on his forehead, hair mussy and covered in dirt -

I lifted him up, and I wrappped his arm around my shoulders, walking him to the door, and sliding it back open. He laughed like the world was about to collapse, and we walked to my car, a beat-up blue renault.

"Angel. Aaangel."  
"There's no angels here."  
"You," he slurred, pointing at me.  
"Books. booooooks. You angel."

 _hide the blush that's coming. grasp it between your fingertips and shove it down your skin_.

the doors opened like clockwork, and I helped him inside, and almost instantly he drifted off to sleep, snoring peacefully, his ivory skin glistening as his hair fluttered in the evening breeze. I forced my gaze away from him, focusing on the steering wheel, entering the car and driving away.

...

The car groaned to a stop in front of the plant shop, and i stepped out before tapping his shoulder.

"Angel."  
"What, dear?"  
"Booooks. Shop."  
"You want to go to the bookshop?"  
"Bookshop."

 _How much had he drank? What had he drank_?

I walked him across the street, and we walked up the steps to the storefront.His brow was creased and exhausted, and his eyelids were drooping.  
"You can sleep in a moment."

 _oh god, what was I doing_?

I held him up and carried him like a small child, carrying his weight up the stairs, and after setting his feet down, walked him to the spare bedroom.  
Tartan sheets lined the bed, and I laid him down, taking off his shoes, before stretching the comforter up over him. he curled up and rested his head against the pillows, a smile barely seen from behind the pillowcase.

He was beautiful, but he could never see the way I looked at him.

I began to walk away, hand lingering on the doorframe, but he spoke again.  
"Angel."

I walked over to him, but before I could say anything, he grabbed my collar, and pulled me to him.

He tasted like gin and cigarettes and strawberries. My heartbeat echoed throughout my chest, yearning for the intoxicating feel of his kiss. Light spilled through my veins, winding around my bones and my skin. I could taste the incarnation of the universe concealed in his lips, and my eyelids fluttered shut as i savored this moment. Don't let this moment end, please, god, whoever's out there, don't let this moment end -

I broke the kiss, stepping away from him, and seconds later his eyelids fluttered closed as he began to snore.

I've ruined everything. I've wandered into his life and ruined it. He was drunk, and he never liked me. Perhaps he thought I was someone else, perhaps he knew another man named angel who I closely resembled, perhaps I've ruined any chance of seeing him again, I have, and he'll have completely forgotten it, or maybe not, he'll storm out the door in a rush of fury, he'll just tell everyone how much of a goddamned fairy I was, the police will come and take everything away, I'll -

I walked downstairs, the only sound as I reached the bottom the pounding of my heart. I sat on the tartan sofa, turning on the old gramophone to play a record.


End file.
